Don't Cry for Me

by Daniel Black

We were taught what to think—not how. There is a difference, you know. It never crossed our minds that we were destroying someone’s life.

I’ve never forgiven God. I never will.

There are no do-overs in this life. Either you get it right or you wish you had.

But more, I hoped you’d love me just because I was your father.

Hurt is worse than anger, you know. Anger dwells in the head, then fades. Hurt lingers in the soul. It rearranges your feelings without your permission. It blinds you.

Memories reveal who you used to be, what you once thought important, what regrets you cannot shake.

Hurt is hard to forget, especially from a mother. And healing is never easy for black men.

“Be the kind of man you are,” I emphasized, “but be a man!”

I guess I’m saying I understand the love one man can have for another, although I don’t mean it the way you do. But perhaps the difference isn’t as great as I’ve thought.

Knowledge is a funny thing, Isaac. It informs by exposing. It shows you precisely how much you don’t know.

Women who loved women weren’t as dangerous, we thought, for a good man could set her aright. We believed that men who loved men went against the fabric of society.

Everything I’d loved I’d destroyed. You don’t know—I hope you don’t know—the feeling of losing everyone you ever loved. You’re left with only your own hurt and regret. All you do is relive mistakes and wish you could undo them. You never can.

I spent years waiting for you—while you’ve spent a lifetime waiting for me.

Love doesn’t make us perfect; it makes us want to be. By the time you discover this, your imperfections have done their damage.